


A Standing Work of Art

by Adenil



Series: Ki'Lor'Koi Meditation [1]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alien Rituals, Blow Jobs, Come Eating, Flowers, Hand Jobs, M/M, Meditation, Pictures, Rope Bondage, Soft D/s mechanics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-14 03:15:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11774358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adenil/pseuds/Adenil
Summary: There is an ancient Vulcan meditation technique that Spock is itching to try. It involves a lot of rope, a lot of flowers, and a lot of cooperation from a willing participant. And boy, is McCoy willing.





	A Standing Work of Art

**Author's Note:**

> Someday I will learn how to write short porn, but today is not that day. 
> 
> I have a [ tumblr](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/) if you're into that, or just want to pop by and offer some support as I write. :)
> 
> Thanks to [ TAFKAB ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB) for the nipples. ;)

It all began when Chapel misplaced a requisition form.

At least, that was the story McCoy would stick to (even though he had an inkling _he_ had misplaced the form). Chapel rolled her eyes at him and he smirked back and she offered to run the datapadd down to Spock herself if it would fix the problem.

“No,” he said, picking it up. “I’ll handle it. You just relax.”

She already had her feet up on the table, a look of challenge on her face. “Of course, Doctor.”

He laughed and stepped out into the hall, datapadd in hand. The ship was quiet that day, unremarkable. McCoy was in a good mood. The ship’s computer told him Spock was already off shift and in his quarters and so McCoy went there. He buzzed the door to announce his presence.

Spock’s voice wafted from inside, “Enter.”

McCoy did, his gaze swiveling around the room to take it all in. He’d only been in Spock’s quarters a handful of times and he always found it (not fascinating, fascinating was the wrong word) _damned curious_ that Spock’s quarters were decorated the way they were. Today the quarters were dimly lit and smelling of an odd alien spice McCoy couldn’t place. Spock was currently sitting in his garish burgundy plush wooden desk chair beneath the statue of a beast that hung on his wall—a sehlat, McCoy figured, judging by the teeth and teddy-bear-like qualities. Spock set down something on the desk and McCoy’s eyes followed the movement automatically.

He paused. Blinked. Looked again, and—Yep. Those were ropes.

There was a small pile of corded black rope on Spock’s desk. Some were thin, some were thick. Some pieces were short and some were long, and all were tied into intricate-looking knots. They formed shapes, some of them, like the petals of a flower opening. Spock had been tying ropes.

“Is there an issue, Doctor?”

“Just this.” McCoy held up the padd and walked over to deliver it to Spock. He roved his gaze over the pile of ropes unabashedly. “Medical requisition form for you to enter. We need the supplies as soon as possible, so it couldn’t wait for tomorrow. Sorry to...disrupt your down time.”

The most curious thing of all, McCoy thought, was that Spock didn’t seem to find what he was doing strange. “It is no matter. I have made little progress with the _ki'lor'koi_ today, regardless.”

The unfamiliar syllables stumped him. “Key...ler ko?”

“ _Ki'lor'koi_ ,” Spock said again, enunciating each syllable clearly for McCoy’s benefit. “It is part of an ancient Vulcan meditation ritual which I have been attempting to master.”

Attempting. That was interesting. Spock didn’t often admit to _attempting_ anything. “Looks like you’re trying to learn how to dock a boat.”

Spock’s eyebrow hitched towards the sky and McCoy laughed.

“I’m just teasing, Spock.” He really was curious, so he asked, “What does it involve?”

Spock showed him the rope he had been working on when he walked in. “Observe the pattern: single, square knots with a doubled length of rope between. It is to represent the breath pulling low from the core of one’s body up the throat to pass through the lips. And then again.” He tugged the rope through his fingers, demonstrating a long and slow breath. “Tying the knot is intended to encourage entering _tal t’li_ , the first stage of meditation.”

“But no dice?”

Spock frowned. “Indeed. I have not, as you would say, had any ‘luck’ with it.”

“How ancient is this meditation technique?”

“It was created during the bridge time, the time between the violence of my ancestors and the age of Surak.”

“Maybe that’s why, then.” McCoy couldn’t resist picking up a small length of rope. The knots were small, evenly layered, forming a diamond shape with several long ends sticking out. “If your ancestors figured out it didn’t work maybe they gave up on it.”

Silence. McCoy looked up and saw Spock watching him with a furrowed brow. “...Perhaps,” he said finally. “Although it is also true that I do not have all the necessary supplies.”

“What are you missing?”

“I had assumed it was of no consequence.” Spock rose and held out his hand. McCoy returned the rope diamond, their fingers brushing. “Thank you for delivering the requisition form, Doctor. I will attend to it this evening.”

McCoy nodded, recognizing a dismissal when he saw one. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Good luck with your...rope.”

Spock nodded in return and McCoy turned on his heel, wondering if it was his imagination that Spock’s gaze held him utterly as he walked from his quarters.

—

McCoy didn’t give the interaction a second thought until the next time he rode the turbolift with Spock. He held the smooth handle and glanced over at the stoic Vulcan, trying to hide the amusement that always bubbled up when he looked at him.

“How’s your new hobby going?”

Spock slotted his gaze over, eyebrows scrunched. Probably referring to an ancient meditation art as a ‘hobby’ had tripped him up, but eventually he answered, “It proceeds much the same.”

“No new breakthroughs?”

“None. I had hoped—Doctor, are you very busy at the moment?”

McCoy arched his brow at the seeming non sequitur. “Busy? No. I was headed to the rec room.”

“Perhaps you would be willing to accompany me to hydroponics? Further research into the art of _ki'lor'koi_ had indicated that floral arrangements were common practice.”

“Floral arrangements,” he repeated, absolutely not smirking although he desperately wanted to.

Spock nodded. He looked very serious. “Yes. The handling of living things was necessary for the rope meditation to function properly.”

McCoy grunted. “What do you need me for?”

Was it his imagination, or did Spock hesitate just a bit too long, his gaze traveling a bit too far south to the collar of McCoy’s shirt? He blinked and Spock was looking him in the eye again, intent. “I know little of flowers.”

“Not sure how much help I’ll be, but I’ll do what I can.”

They changed the turbolift destination and stepped out on deck eleven. They walked side-by-side as they usually did towards hydroponics, not really needing to say much. They stepped in and McCoy felt his shoulders relax. There was something magical about being around so many green things this deep in space. He often forgot what it felt like. He stopped to smell a pale pink flower not unlike a rose, feeling the silky smooth texture of one of the petals.

He could feel Spock a step behind him and he turned, raising a brow to match Spock’s. “Shall we?”

They scoured the hydroponics bay for what Spock needed. Spock told him as much as he could about the specifications of the ritual. Different colors apparently meant different things. Pink was a soothing color. Green was a deeply emotional one. Blue was the color of passion. He was supposed to incorporate the feelings of the day so that they could be excised from his body (an odd metaphor, if you asked McCoy). Some of the plants were supposed to be sharp and barbed, others smoothed and soft. There was a bit of everything in the bay and they soon gathered up a small armful of flowers each.

“Will you assist me in bringing these to my quarters?”

McCoy was already in it for the long haul and so he doggedly followed Spock down the hall, glaring at anyone who gave them an odd look. He held his bundle of flowers close to his chest, the scents and textures wafting over him.

At Spock’s quarters they deposited their burdens at the desk where Spock’s ropes were. McCoy noted that Spock had many different colors of ropes now. Maybe he thought color had something to do with it, just as the colors of the flowers did. McCoy ran his hand over a deep blue rope, feeling the texture of the knots.

“Your assistance is appreciated, Doctor.” Spock was messing with his own flowers, neatly sorting them into piles that he probably considered logical but which McCoy couldn’t make heads or tails of.

“Of course,” he said. “Hey, let me know how it goes, all right?”

Spock glanced up at him. His brown eyes seemed darker than usual and McCoy wondered if he was already halfway to a meditative trance. “I shall,” he said. He looked down at the flowers again and picked up one that was sky-blue with ruffled feathers that reminded McCoy of a petticoat. “For you, Doctor. As recompense for aiding me.”

McCoy took it, feeling oddly touched by the offer. He had nowhere to put it and so he tucked it behind his ear. Spock watched him do it, his gaze definitely heated now. “Well, what do you think?” McCoy asked, primping at his hair. “Does it bring out my eyes?”

Spock almost looked amused. Almost. “The refraction does emphasize your natural blue.”

He chuckled, feeling suddenly awkward. He didn’t quite know how to leave. He felt an unmistakable urge to stay, and his feet didn’t want to move. Still, he took a step back and nodded to Spock.

Spock returned the gesture, and this time McCoy knew that the weight he felt on his shoulders was Spock’s gaze following him out the door.

—

Spock sat down across from him in the mess hall with a salad and glass of fruit juice and said, “You wished to know the status of my meditation attempts?”

McCoy, caught in the middle of a bite of sandwich, took a minute to chew and swallow. “Sure, if you want to share.”

Spock looked down at his salad, his normally stoic features slightly warped. He looked downright miserable. “They have, thus far, continued to be unsuccessful.”

“The flowers didn’t help?”

“They did not.”

McCoy hummed. “That’s a shame. I suppose not every experiment can turn out to be successful.”

Spock’s gaze flickered towards him, and then back to the salad. “There is one other thing I might try. However—” His hesitation was brief but palpable. It was odd to see Spock hesitant. “I require the assistance of another person. As you are already aware of my meditation attempts, Doctor, I had hoped to ask you. Would you be amenable to assisting me tonight?”

McCoy considered. He wasn’t sure, exactly, what ‘assistance’ meant in this case, but it couldn’t be too bad. “Sure, I’ll see what I can do.”

Spock nodded to him and returned to his salad, and they slipped easily into a conversation about ship’s business until Jim sauntered over to join them. McCoy didn’t think much of it until he arrived at Spock’s quarters after his shift. He was still in his uniform. He’d contemplated changing before finally deciding against it. He and Spock had grown more friendly over the years, but there was still a distance between them. Spock might find it odd if he showed up in civvies.

He chimed the door and Spock called him in. McCoy stepped inside, eyes widening as he caught sight of Spock standing near the desk. Wearing civvies wouldn’t have been a bad idea, as Spock himself had taken off his uniform. He’d put on what looked to be a sapphire blue meditation robe. It seemed oddly textured, embroidery sparkling in the dim light of Spock’s quarters. It folded over his front intricately and McCoy had the fleeting thought that Spock might be naked under there. He ignored it.

Spock had made some space in the center of the room and laid out his meditation mat. There was a sconce before it with an unlit cone of incense, and beside the mat was a brass bowl of water containing a bouquet of flowers. The ropes were jade green and neatly piled beside the mat. McCoy took it all in, suddenly wondering what he had gotten himself into.

“Doctor. Thank you for joining me.”

“Sure,” he said, brutally ignoring the sudden urge to flee. He gazed down at the mat and ropes. “What, uh. What exactly does this entail?”

Spock came over to stand beside him, looking down at the gathered materials as well. Perhaps he was trying to see it as McCoy did. He folded his hands into the long sleeves of his robe. “I have spent many weeks attempting to unlock the potential of this meditation form, to no avail. I have told you that it requires the handling of living things?”

“Yeah?”

“In the time of my ancestors, the more wealthy individuals would have a _kafeh_ specifically designated for the task. As that is not possible—and morally reprehensible—I have asked you instead. The _ki'lor'koi_ form of meditation requires the ceremonial binding of another person. The pattern of knots assists in small psychic transferences, allowing the meditative state to be deeper than it otherwise would be.”

McCoy sort of understood that, but, “Wait, you’re going to tie me up?”

Spock inclined his head. “Put simply: yes. Are you still amenable to assisting me?”

He tried not to gape but was fairly certain he failed. Spock blinked placidly back at him, seemingly unaware of how untoward the proposal was. Well, maybe to a Vulcan this was all normal. Vulcans probably didn’t have any illogical associations about being bound and, well, _copulating_. Not that McCoy had too many associations himself. He’d indulged in handcuffs a few times, and once he’d gone blindfolded and that had been a hoot, but really he’d never gotten any further than that. He knew what being tied up meant to a human, but did Spock?

He realized he’d been quiet too long when Spock subtly shifted, leaning away from him. “If the proposal is too taxing for you I could find another.”

It probably wasn’t meant as a challenge but McCoy still took it as such, hardening his gaze as he glared at Spock. “I can take anything you can throw at me.” He frowned at Spock’s answering eyebrow, the ‘uh huh, sure’ unspoken. “What do you need me to do?”

“Please remove your clothing.”

That gave him pause but before he could look to Spock for how he should react, the other man was already strolling across the room to kneel on the meditation mat. He lit the incense and a thin trail of smoke danced upwards, snaking through the room and filling McCoy’s senses with a deep, earthy scent. Like leaves opening to rain. Nonchalant, then. It soothed him to know Spock was treating this just like any other meditation—with the addition of an extra person—and he decided to take Spock up on his challenge.

It was the challenge that made him tug his blue uniform top up over his head, but it was his helping nature that brought his hands to the waistband of his pants. He thumbed them open, telling himself that this was a perfectly normal thing for a coworker to do. And anyway he was a doctor and Spock was having trouble meditating, which was medically necessary for him. If he had the capability of helping Spock, he should do it.

He set his boots aside near the door and folded his clothes into a pile against the wall. They looked lonely there and McCoy felt his skin prickling as he realized how naked he was, clad in only his regulation boxers.

He turned and saw that Spock was looking at him, a small spool of rope in his lap. “Dr. McCoy, the ceremony does require you to remove all of your clothing.”

McCoy tried not to blush, and he might have been half way successful at it. “But you’ll, uh, remain clothed?”

Spock looked at him flatly. Not an ounce of emotion under that stoic exterior. “Of course.”

That made him feel a little better, but he still felt the need to bargain, “Listen,” he said. “I know this is your special meditation time, or whatever, but you gotta know that I’m not going to stop ribbing you.”

“I expected no less,” Spock said with a long-suffering air. “Now please, Doctor. Let us continue.”

He touched the waistband of his underwear hesitantly, and then steeled. There was no use dancing around the subject. He was already mostly naked in Spock’s quarters for a platonic get-together. What was one more article of clothing on top of that? He slipped his boxers off his hips and stepped out of them, putting them with his other things.

And then he really _was_ naked, and it shocked him how his own mood shifted in response. The air in Spock’s quarters seemed to press in, turning downright claustrophobic. It seemed like he could feel the incense trailing over his skin, twisting between his legs and up his spine, curling into his hair. He shivered and took a step towards Spock, who rose to meet him.

They stood in the center of the room on the spongy meditation mat—Spock clothed, he nude. He could feel his skin prickling already and with a deep sense of foreboding as he realized he’d just gotten himself into deep trouble.

There was no backing out now, however, as Spock raised the coil of rope to show him. “We will begin with this.”

He handed it to McCoy and McCoy took it, surprised, wondering what to do with it. The rope was one of the thinner coils, slightly cool and silky to the touch. Very high quality. He held it in both hands as Spock stepped forward and then around him, his brown gaze raking over McCoy’s naked body slowly, methodically. McCoy felt as if he were under a microscope as Spock walked behind him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and then he jumped as Spock’s hand came to rest between his shoulder blades.

Had Spock ever touched him there? He couldn’t remember, couldn’t think past the warm soft skin of Spock’s hand flat on his back. He grunted, trying for gruff and missing by a mile. “What’re you doing?”

“An issue has presented itself which I had not prepared for.” Spock trailed his hand down, probing either side of McCoy’s spine curiously.

McCoy held himself still. “What’s that?”

“The patterns indicated in the data I gathered were intended for Vulcan bodies—Vulcan muscles and bone structure. Yours is quite different. Your body is alien to me.”

Spock had moved on, lightly touching the back of McCoy’s arm, and then the front. The tips of his fingers were calloused and McCoy could feel the roughness as Spock tapped his stomach and then worked his way up, finally resting at his sternum.

“I am afraid I will have to improvise,” Spock said matter-of-factly.

“Improvise?” McCoy smirked at him. “You?”

Spock gave him a look that passed for a Vulcan glare, and then suddenly softened. “I understand you may not wish to engage in my meditation form at this time, given my relative lack of knowledge of the human form. If you wish, we could engage at another time after I have conducted more research.”

Jesus, McCoy wasn’t sure he could leave now after having stood naked in Spock’s room. If he did leave he was pretty sure he’d never be able to come back. That this would become something unmentionable between them. And then he’d never know what might have happened if he’d stayed.

He shook his head. “We’re in it now. Might as well keep going.”

Spock nodded and did another slow sweep of McCoy’s body. McCoy tried not to feel as naked as he was, but it was difficult. Each time Spock’s long sleeve brushed over the small of his back or the hairs on his arm he was reminded that Spock was clothed and he wasn’t. That Spock had all the control and he none. And that the imbalance between them was about to grow.

When Spock held out his hand McCoy gave him back the rope. Their fingers didn’t touch.

Spock took the two ends of the rope in one hand and began running his other hand down its length, searching for the middle. The sound of skin against cord was loud in the quiet room and McCoy struggled for something to say. Something to lighten the mood, although he was apparently the only one feeling tense. Spock’s shoulders were relaxed as he found the middle of the rope and tied off a neat overhand knot to make a loop.

“The first breath,” Spock told him, and looped the cord behind his neck.

McCoy looked down at the long green cords hanging on either side of his body. The green was deep, and bright. Blood green. He’d certainly seen that color spilling out of Spock enough times to be able to recognize it now against his own pink-flushed skin. “Does the color matter?”

Spock took the rope in his hands and began twisting it, end over end, a dozen times. “Color?” he asked, and Spock was kneeling, why was he kneeling with his face so close, so amazingly close to McCoy’s soft pink cock? Oh, oh, kneeling to—to trail the rope between McCoy’s legs and then stand, drawing the rope along with him.

McCoy shifted his legs apart, not liking the way the silky-smooth rope slipped over his balls and between his cheeks. It pulled taut against him and he could feel Spock’s breath on the back of his neck, the rough cloth of his sleeves a surprising contrast to the smooth rope.

“Doctor?”

He hadn’t answered and he mentally cursed himself. “I mean, why green?”

“Ah, I understand your question.” Spock was criss-crossing the rope behind him and then reached around McCoy’s body, sliding the two long ends into one of the twists he had made earlier. He pulled it back around and performed the same action again, creating little diamond shapes down McCoy’s front as he went. “There was a single theory I came across that did seem to indicate the color of the ropes either inspired or discouraged meditation. Black, for example, which was the default color in the replicator, was stated to discourage meditation. White had a minor positive effect, and red a moderately positive effect.”

“And green?”

Spock slipped his fingers under the first crossing of rope, his two digits hot as he slid them over McCoy’s skin, drawing back to check the tightness. “A highly positive effect. When I tested this in solitude it did seem to be the case.”

McCoy grunted, looking down as Spock’s rope diamonds bracketed his chest. The rope caught on his nipples, already sensitized due to his own overactive imagination, and as Spock pulled it tight McCoy had to force himself not to shiver at the burst of pleasure that trickled down his spine. “Not very logical, is it? To have colors make a difference like that.”

“Indeed,” Spock agreed, “There may be a slight placebo effect.”

“Placebo effect? I thought Vulcans didn’t fall for that.”

“We do not.” Spock was working at the back of his neck now, tying the rope off around the loop he had made and then drawing it down. McCoy could feel his hands as he began curling the ends of the rope into the criss-cross pattern at his back, wrapping up the ends. “But we do have social presumptions about colors, just as most species do. And green is a color which has a particular meaning for Vulcans.”

McCoy didn’t ask what that meaning was. He already knew.

Spock’s touch was suddenly gone and McCoy turned, a ridiculous spike of concern traveling through him. But Spock was merely visually inspecting his handiwork, his gaze as hot as his touch had been. Spock stepped around him and slipped his fingers under the rope here and there, seemingly at random, apparently just to feel how tight it was. It felt very tight to McCoy, almost constricting his breath, but he knew that was just his own fool head getting the best of him.

Apparently satisfied, Spock stepped away and picked up another long piece of rope, unraveling it in his hands. “Do you have a preference, Doctor, for arms or legs?”

The use of his title relaxed him. This really was just a platonic interaction for Spock, for all that McCoy was about to burst at the seams as he tried to keep his curious cock uninterested. “No preference,” he said.

“Then we shall begin with the legs.”

Wait, begin? Did that mean both would end up roped? Before he could ask Spock’s hand was on his shoulder, gently pushing him down.

He didn’t exactly know what was going on, but still he knelt on the meditation mat. It was spongy and soft beneath his knees. Perfect for long sessions kneeling before a burning sconce. He hoped he wouldn’t have to kneel for long, though, since his knees weren’t as spry as a Vulcan’s.

Spock was kneeling beside him as well, adjusting his legs so that his ankles were directly beneath his buttocks. Spreading his legs like that made the rope twist over his body, sliding against the sensitive skin between his legs. McCoy grunted and then swallowed a moan as he spread his legs just a little further.

It felt _good_ , and he had to stop himself from getting into it. He glanced at Spock with worry but Spock almost seemed to be ignoring him. Or not ignoring him, exactly, but rather treating him like a piece of furniture. McCoy flushed with embarrassment as Spock took one end of the rope and began to wrap it around his upper thigh loosely but firmly until the rope covered him for a hand’s breadth, and then Spock worked the rope down around his ankle to do the same thing. He tied it off and then looped it through the bottom edge of McCoy’s new torso binding, the spiral of rope looking stark against his pale skin.

Spock shuffled over to perform the same task on the other side of his body. McCoy watched him with his head bowed, hands tense at his sides. He was going to lose it. He wished furtively that he had taken something before he’d left Sickbay—something that would keep him flaccid and unaroused. But he hadn’t really known what he was getting himself into, and his cock gave an interested twitch against his thigh as Spock rested his hand a scant two centimeters away, long fingers pointed towards him.

He should put a stop to this. He should stop this right now while he still had an ounce of dignity and perhaps still Spock’s grudging respect. He was sure Spock would understand if he explained that although Vulcans didn’t seem to have any qualms about tying someone up like this, humans _did_. That it wasn’t something coworkers did—hell, it wasn’t even something friends did, and although McCoy knew their friendship had come a long way he wasn’t sure it had come _this_ far.

But doing that would mean giving up on Spock’s touch. On the subtle creaking as McCoy shifted in his bonds. On the sensation of being held _everywhere_. It would mean giving up on Spock’s heated look of approval as he pulled away and tugged at the rope once, twice, testing it.

Although he was wearing more now, McCoy bizarrely felt more naked. More exposed under Spock’s gaze.

“I must say, I am surprised.”

McCoy swallowed thickly. When he spoke his voice was almost normal—almost. “Surprised?”

“That you are beh—” Spock seemed about to say something and then quickly thought better of it. “I expected more resistance from you.”

Hell, McCoy had expected more resistance from _himself._  He didn’t know what to make of the fact that Spock holding a rope was more than enough for him to get on his knees and obey every one of Spock’s wordless, unspoken commands. He frowned, settling into gruffness, his tone mocking.

“What have I got to resist? I agreed to help, so I’m helping.”

Spock’s eyebrow lifted upwards. “Indeed.”

He grunted. “I may think it’s silly, Spock, but it’s important to you, so…” He trailed off, shrugging.

Spock blinked at him, his head tipped to one side. He seemed to give McCoy a great deal of consideration before nodding. He shifted to take another piece of rope into his hands.

“Your arms.”

McCoy let Spock draw his arms behind his back, his heart thudding in his chest. The position made him feel precarious. It suddenly made him realize that kneeling like this put him slightly off balance, and the feeling increased dramatically as he leaned forward so Spock could bind his arms. He could probably stay like this for quite a while before his legs would start to ache, but that didn’t change the fact that he was _vulnerable_. He thought back to the way it had felt to be handcuffed while his ex-boyfriend went to town on him, or blindfolded while his ex-wife had gone down between his legs. It hadn’t felt anything like this.

He felt helpless as Spock began looping the rope around and around his wrists. Spock roped the binding into a simple number-eight, quick handcuffs, and then pressed his thumb into McCoy’s palm.

He realized he was making fists and he let Spock work his hands flat, pressing them together palm-to-palm. There was more rope—thinner this time—around his wrists, keeping them closer together, and then criss-crossing over the back of his hands, between his fingers. Spock tied his two hands together so that his fingers were spread flat, extended. Separated by rope. He couldn’t close his hands and he felt oddly on display. McCoy twitched as Spock ran one finger over the new bindings, his callouses dragging over the skin of McCoy’s shaking fingers.

He twitched again as Spock tugged at the bindings that ran between his legs, pulling them tight over his balls and—goddammnit. He couldn’t stop himself. His cock gave a happy thrum and he could feel himself filling with blood as it gently lifted from his thigh. Damnit. _Damnit!_ He’d managed to keep himself in control for so long, but somehow this was harder. He couldn’t see what Spock was doing and it made him feel like Spock could be doing _anything_. He had the odd fleeting thought that this was what prey must feel like with the breath of a carnivore hot on their necks. The thought made his body thrum with excitement, and it only doubled as Spock began applying more rope to his back.

He had no idea what Spock was doing. He shifted, uncomfortably aroused, and that only made the ropes pull against him again. His cock was hard now against his belly, a thin bead of precome at the tip, and he realized his mouth was open and he was panting.

McCoy slammed his mouth shut, biting his tongue. “What are you doing back there?”

“I am creating the handle.”

Fuck. _Fuck_. He should have asked more questions. He should have interrogated Spock for hours about exactly what he planned to do and how he planned to do it. But he had blindly trusted Spock—hell, he still trusted him. He knew it wasn’t Spock’s intention to get him riled up, hard and aching and needy. Spock was the furthest thing from attracted to him, he knew that.

To Spock this was just a ceremony. McCoy was the one ruining it with his ridiculously sensitive human body.

Spock had apparently finished the handle, for he stood up behind McCoy. He swallowed his gasp as Spock tested the handle, lifting him easily from the ground. Fuck, Spock was so strong, and of course McCoy _knew_ that. He’d seen all Spock’s test results after each physical. Knew exactly how much Spock could lift, how much he could crush in those long fingers of his. But he hadn’t known it like _this_ ; known it in the way his body felt as Spock lifted him from the ground like he was a doll and _held him there_ , humming under his breath like he was pleased with his work. It made McCoy throb with desire and he wanted—desperately, stupidly—to ask if Spock would tip him forward onto his chest and slide his fingers down between his legs, down alongside the rope that ran over his sensitive hole and push _in_.

He shook his head to dispel the thought. He was being an idiot.

Spock carefully set him back down. McCoy was panting again and he forced himself to stop. He watched the flutter of Spock’s robe as he walked around to the front, stopping before McCoy suddenly.

“Doctor—”

“It’s an autonomic response,” McCoy hissed. He looked up and saw Spock was gazing at him flatly, not a stitch of emotion in his brow or at his lips. Like a damned scientist studying an experiment. The look made panic coil in McCoy’s chest and he babbled, “A human thing. Just like when your nipples—” _Fuck_ , shut up! Had he really been about to say that? “W-when your skin gets pebbled in the cold.

“I see.” Spock nodded thoughtfully, his eyes traveling up the length of McCoy’s erection towards his chest. Spock knelt before him, his hand lifting to touch McCoy’s chest, pressing inquisitive fingers to his peaked and pink-flushed nipple. “Your nipples are pebbled now, Doctor. Are you cold?”

He shuddered as a bolt of pleasure rocketed through him. “No,” he insisted angrily, although the cool ropes on his body did make him feel chilly.

Spock’s hand shifted, brushing, and McCoy forced down another shudder. Spock’s eyes were very warm, very open, but McCoy couldn’t read him at all. God damnit what he wouldn’t give to know what Spock was thinking right then. It couldn’t be good. He could imagine that Spock was disappointed at the reactions of McCoy’s human body, so driven by physiology that he couldn’t control something as simple as an erection.

“Computer, raise temperature by two degrees.”

There was a beep of compliance and McCoy felt his shoulders relax. It really _did_ make him feel better. “Thanks,” he muttered.

“It is no issue. I, too, prefer the warmth. I had neglected to consider what your lack of clothing might to do you.” Spock stood, brushing off the front of his robe. It had fallen open somewhat with his movements and McCoy caught sight of a flash of his chest, his long leg, as he refastened it. “Regardless, once you have left the cold floor you will feel warmer.”

Left the floor? McCoy was too dazed to even ask, and his erection fucking _loved_ the idea as soon as Spock said it in that rich, sultry voice. He turned to watch Spock gather a much thicker rope and reach towards the ceiling.

Spock looped it through a hook there that McCoy hadn’t noticed earlier. If he had, maybe he would have been smart enough to ask a fucking question. Instead, he could merely watch as Spock trailed the rope down to McCoy’s back. He couldn’t see what was happening, but he could feel it. Spock was trussing him up. Hell, he was already hogtied, so what was one more rope on top of that?

He grunted in surprise as Spock pulled on the rope, lifting him up off the ground. The movement tipped him forward so he was facing down, the meditation mat the only thing he could see. The ropes across his chest and front took the brunt of his weight, evenly distributing it. Spock had done a good job. It didn’t hurt a bit, but he could _feel_ it. He felt heavy and precarious, gently rocking with his own momentum as Spock stopped him about waist-high off the ground. Spock touched his shoulder, rotating him slowly so that they could face one another. McCoy had to crane his neck to see Spock’s face.

“Is there pain anywhere?”

McCoy hesitated. He knew, suddenly, that Spock was giving him an out. He could say he was hurting and Spock would let him down. Untie him. Maybe rub his sore ankles while they pretended the blood flow there wasn’t up to snuff. Spock would do that for him and he wouldn’t even have to mention the fact that his cock was aching as it swung down towards the ground, his balls loose and sensitive with the force of gravity. He could have said yes, and Spock would have stopped this all.

He didn’t want to say yes.

He closed his eyes, shaking his head. “There’s no pain.” He let his head fall, feeling the tension of every smooth rope against his skin, digging into his flesh, holding him, cocooning him. It felt so good because _Spock_ had put them there. Tied him up. He was bound in the color of Spock’s life’s blood. Marked. Owned. He felt possessed in more ways than one.

Spock let him go and moved towards the bowl of flowers. McCoy had almost forgotten them, but as Spock moved away McCoy began to rock, ropes creaking against the hook and over his body. It made him shake—and not in pleasure. He writhed, panicking.

“Spock—shit, wait, come back.”

Spock was back in an instant, hands on McCoy’s shoulders. “An issue?”

“I—I’m not sure about this whole being off the ground thing.” It seemed too far away. He was too helpless like this.

“I see.” Spock considered for a moment and then went to his right hip. McCoy could feel Spock’s long fingers on him, undoing the knots he had so expertly tied earlier, and then his leg was blissfully free.

He groaned as he stretched it out, and Spock helped him roll over in the bonds so that his leg could reach towards the ground, his toes barely making it to the meditation mat. He dug the ball of his foot into the spongy material and his rocking stopped. He was stable.

“Acceptable?” Spock asked.

McCoy nodded. “That’s fine.”

He still had one leg tied tight, his arms behind his back, but he felt fine. He must have looked ridiculous with his cock flushed as red as his chest and face, but Spock didn’t seem to find him ridiculous at all. He had an easier time looking up at Spock like this, and Spock merely looked at him curiously. Openly. And McCoy got a hint that maybe something was going on in Spock’s world, too.

Before he could contemplate that, Spock was kneeling at the bowl of flowers and gathering them up. The long stems were damp with water and cold to the touch as he began to arrange them artfully on McCoy’s body.

He slipped a pale pink peony into the ropes above McCoy’s chest, and then a ruffled blue flower at his hip, a yellow Saurian sundrop under his belly button where his hair pointed down towards his arousal. McCoy grunted at the attention, embarrassed.

“What is this?”

“Ten thousand years ago,” Spock said, his voice low and warm as he worked, “This portion of the ritual turned the _kafeh_ into _fanet_ —ornament. An aesthetically pleasing object to be observed during the second stage of meditation.” He slipped another ruffled blue flower behind McCoy’s ear, softly pushing back his hair as he went.

McCoy’s breath hitched at the contact. It felt—well, intimate was the only word for it, but given what they were doing _everything_ should be feeling that way. Only, it was Spock’s long fingers in his hair that made a shiver run down his spine. Changed the tenor of their interaction. He licked his lips.

“Have you…” McCoy had to pause, swallowing. “Have you entered the first stage of meditation?”

Spock considered him, his thumb still warm against McCoy’s temple. After a moment he pulled his hand away and folded it into his sleeve. “Not yet.”

Spock pulled away from him completely. There was a single piece of rope discarded on the ground and Spock knelt beside it, picking it up and turning it over in his hands. The rope began to take shape beneath his ministrations, tiny knots forming fast and precise at his touch.

“There is one final piece which I have not yet applied to your body.” The phrasing made McCoy shiver, and Spock seemed to notice, his right eyebrow arching. “Normally, this piece is applied first. However, given your...request to ‘rib’ me, I made the decision to wait for the end.” His fingers twisted, the final knot sliding into place, and he held up his creation.

McCoy felt his breath catch. His toes dug into the mat, and he felt incredibly off balance. His leg was shaking with the energy of keeping himself upright and still, but other than that he felt at ease. Relaxed. It was the easiest thing in the world to nod and let his mouth fall open to Spock’s offering.

Spock slipped the gag between his lips and tied it off, trailing his fingers against McCoy’s jaw as he went.

That piece—that last piece—seemed to seal the deal. Spock took a step away from him and began to rove his gaze over McCoy’s body, drinking in the sight of him trussed up and utterly at his mercy. An ornament. With the gag in his mouth McCoy couldn’t even beg to be let down. Not that he wanted to, not ever. It felt surprisingly good to hang like that as Spock slowly circled him once, twice, three times, his gaze heavy enough that McCoy could feel it like a weight.

McCoy sighed as Spock’s hands came to rest on his lower back, carefully adjusting the flowers there. The stems rubbed at him, the wetness making him feel chilly, but Spock’s touch was hot, a brand against his skin. His fingers trickled down to the ropes between Leonard’s legs and gently plucked at them, drawing the silk over Leonard’s balls and his eager hole. He shifted, unable to stop the moan that rumbled from his throat at the contact. Spock soothed his flank and then stepped back around.

He picked up McCoy’s head and gazed into his eyes. His lips looked wet—had he licked them? “I wish to take a holo of you, Leonard. May I?”

His name in Spock’s rich, deep voice made him shudder again. Fuck, he was losing it. But he was sharply aroused and he was pretty sure Spock was, too. Spock could have done it without asking. Hell, he could have done _anything_ to him and McCoy wouldn’t have been able to stop him. But he had asked; he was, in fact, now gently cradling McCoy’s jaw as he waited for a response.

McCoy nodded.

Spock released him, his fingers trailing over McCoy’s pried apart lips as he went. He disappeared behind McCoy and McCoy listened for the pitter patter of his feet as he went into the other room. Probably to get the camera. He strained his ears and could hear Spock moving about.

McCoy felt lonely without Spock beside him. His skin prickled with the desire to be touched, to be held. The scent of the flowers and incense mingled against his skin, penetrating him, slipping into his body until he was quaking. He’d never felt like this before: aroused. Helpless. Needy. He wanted Spock back so badly that when he finally felt a soft hand at the back of his neck he moaned in relief.

“Shh, Leonard,” Spock soothed him, fingers trailing over his spine. “We are nearly done.”

He didn’t want to be done, but he also couldn’t handle anymore of this torture. He stayed still and good as Spock stepped away again, lifting the camera.

The camera snapped with the first holopicture and McCoy gasped, realizing suddenly that now Spock had _evidence_ that he had been like this. Spock had a picture of him nude and glistening, his cock hard against his leg, flowers adorning his body—turning him into an ornament for Spock’s viewing pleasure. He wondered vaguely what the camera captured, what Spock saw. Could it see the way his toes clenched and unclenched against the mat? The way his eyelashes fluttered as Spock circled around him? The way the flowers brushed soft against his skin, sensitizing it? The way saliva built behind the gag and trickled out to pour over his lips and drip occasionally to the floor? Could it see the wetness at the head of his cock, the long slow dribble of precome down his length? Could it see the way he pushed his bottom out, silently begging for Spock to touch him there again? Could it see the way his body thrummed for Spock, wanted him, desired him, _needed_ him?

He couldn’t know.

Spock took a few dozen pictures, the camera clicking away as he moved around McCoy. He would have a three-hundred and sixty degree view. A full hologram. Something he could return to later, maybe, and relive McCoy’s moment of desperation.

McCoy didn’t realized he had closed his eyes until he felt Spock’s hand on his jaw again, turning his face.

“Leonard?”

“Mm?”

Spock petted his chin soothingly. “Would you like to be let down?”

He shook his head weakly and then stopped himself, frowning. He started to nod and then stopped again. He didn’t know what he wanted. He looked up at Spock pleadingly, silently giving him permission to do as he wished.

Spock’s eyes were blown wide, dark and near black. He took in a small breath, lips parted with something akin to awe.

“I see.”

Spock reached up and unhooked him.

McCoy groaned as his tense leg took on his weight. Spock lifted him, helping him to bend his knee so that he could kneel again on the soft meditation mat. Whereas before Spock’s touch had been fleeting, now he gathered McCoy against him. McCoy could feel Spock’s chest expanding with his breaths, the coiled strength of his arms, the gentle softness of his lips at McCoy’s neck.

“Leonard,” Spock whispered, reverential. “Forgive me, I—I did not know I would react in this manner.”

McCoy twisted, his body rolling in Spock’s grasp. He wanted more of him. More of the rough fabric of Spock’s robe against him—stark contrast to the silk of the ropes—and more of Spock’s body opening to him. He made a muffled sound against the gag, saliva running down the corner of his mouth. He felt filthy.

Spock pulled away and brought the back of his hand to McCoy’s cheek. He wiped away the wetness there and then reached behind to undo the gag. Although it had only been in a short while McCoy’s jaw ached. He stretched his mouth, closing it gingerly and then opening it again.

“Why’re you…apologizing?”

Spock’s hands came to either side of his face and held him sternly, his dark gaze boring into McCoy with a force that could hardly be reckoned with. Spock’s eyes roved over his face, his lips, his neck.

“I wish to touch you.”

McCoy groaned, shivering. “I, uh, think I could be amenable to that.”

Light hit Spock’s eyes, something near happiness, and then he was pushing McCoy’s knees apart. McCoy hitched in a breath as Spock’s long fingers trailed up the sensitive inner skin of his thigh. He stopped where leg met groin and pressed there, eliciting another stuttered moan from deep inside of him.

“Spock, are you—” He shuddered as Spock tickled him again. “—A-are you—? Please, don’t make me beg for it.”

“I would not,” Spock whispered, and his hand mercifully closed around him.

McCoy keened at the touch. Spock felt hot. Soft and rough in equal parts. He wrapped those beautiful fingers around McCoy’s erection and McCoy yearned towards him, pulling at every thread that held him back. He wanted to touch Spock so badly, so desperately that he felt like his fingers were aflame, but he couldn’t. He could only twist and groan and beg with his body—with his mouth—as Spock began to stroke him.

Spock’s touch was too feather-light. A hand too used to a sensitive Vulcan erection. McCoy gasped, hips lifting as much as he could with the rope still around one of his thighs. The tension made the rope between his legs pull over his balls and slip against his fluttering hole, and he keened.

“ _Please_ , Spock, _God_ , I… _Please_ touch me.”

“I am touching you, Leonard,” Spock said, still with that reverence in his voice. Like he couldn’t believe it was happening.

“H-harder, Spock, please, I need—I need you to touch me harder.”

Spock tightened his grasp just a hair and it wasn’t enough, not nearly enough, but still McCoy groaned his appreciation, soft murmurs of _yes, yes please, like that_ that fell against Spock’s neck. He buried his face into Spock’s robes and Spock stroked him gently, far too gently, and how was it possible for someone as strong as Spock to handle him with such care? With such delicate devotion that McCoy felt as though he were flying apart?

“More,” he begged, “Spock, please _more_.”

Spock gave it to him, but slowly. His hand moved like water and his grip was barely there but it was so _good_ after a night of hanging by a thread that McCoy gave himself over to it utterly, let Spock pull that pleasure from deep inside him with those clever fingers.

“Fascinating,” Spock breathed. “Leonard, you are so—fascinating.”

He sobbed, unable to form a reply except for the jumbled moaning of _please, yes_ , and _more_. Spock took him in hand right there on the meditation mat while he was still covered in flowers, bound with hands behind him, utterly at Spock’s mercy in every way. Spock pleasured him in the palm of his hand until McCoy was overflowing with it, the ecstasy thick in the back of his throat, choking him as he came gasping and shaking against Spock’s stoic body.

He came in Spock’s hand and he felt Spock’s sharp intake of breath. Spock caught most of it as McCoy quaked against him, utterly wrecked. He gasped for breath and Spock gently took his chin in his other hand, turning to press his lips against McCoy’s cheek. Not quite a kiss, but close.

“Fascinating,” Spock murmured again.

McCoy could feel him moving and he leaned back enough to see what was happening. He gasped as Spock lifted his wet, come-filled hand to his mouth and delicately poked out his tongue.

“Spock—”

“It is true, then.” Spock flattened his tongue, licking a swath up his palm and gathering that small piece of McCoy to be brought inside of him. “Human males cannot prevent an emission during orgasm.”

McCoy looked at him, incredulous and unbelievably aroused as Spock ate from his hand. “I—yes, that’s true.” Did that mean that Spock had never been with a human male before? That McCoy was his first? The thought made something warm and fond blossom within him. “Spock, I want to taste you.”

Spock looked at him with surprise written clear in his features. “That is not logical.”

He mightily resisted the urge to point out that Spock was currently eating come out of his damned hand, and instead let his voice drop low, a sultry purr, “It’s perfectly logical, darlin’. I want to put you in my mouth and run my tongue over the head of your cock. I want to please you like you just pleased me. Spock, I want to _taste_ you.”

Spock gulped visibly, a line of distress at his brow. “It—it is not logical,” he said again. “I do not wish to take advantage.”

“Isn’t this affecting you at all?”

Spock looked down—at his lap, McCoy realized. He balled his fist up tight and McCoy could see that strict Vulcan control warring with his own desires. He silently begged that just this once, Spock would let him in.

Finally, Spock went still. His eyes fell shut. “Yes,” he admitted.

McCoy licked his lips. “For how long?”

Spock looked at him. Looked away again. Looked back, his eyes locking onto McCoy with fervent intensity. “I have been aroused by your presence since I first asked you to strip and you obeyed, but I have indulged in such thoughts long before then.”

“Oh.” A thrill ran down McCoy’s spine and for a half-second he forgot he was still tied up. He tried to reach for Spock, to pull him in. He wanted to kiss Spock so badly—but he _could_ do that. His mouth was free as anything and so he grinned, huge enough that Spock seemed startled, and tipped himself right over.

Spock caught him with an _oof_ and then their lips were together. Spock’s mouth was open, a question at the tip of his tongue, and that was all McCoy needed to press in. He was still weak and shaky from one of the best damned orgasms of his life, so he didn’t have a lot of brainpower to make this argument to Spock. But what he did have was his tongue, and his naked body, and his utter desire that he tried to pour between them and into Spock. Spock held back just a touch, for a just a moment, and then with a desperate sound the likes of which McCoy had never heard from him before, he was kissing him.

Yes. Yes, _this_ was what he wanted, all he could ever want as he licked his way into Spock’s slick mouth and tasted himself on Spock’s tongue. They coiled together, mouths sliding easy and slow, gentle. He could feel Spock’s hands on his arms, fingers trailing under and over ropes, occasionally tugging on them without apparent intent. Perhaps he was still fascinated that McCoy was like this, and McCoy’s grin sharpened at the thought.

He pulled back and pressed one sloppy wet kiss against Spock’s lips again, murmuring, “Can I see you?”

Spock’s whole body shuddered. Slowly, his hands came away from McCoy and McCoy sat back on his heels, eager to see what awaited him. Spock’s hands came to the opening of his robe almost shyly, slipping beneath and then down, gently parting the fabric. He opened the front and McCoy gasped as Spock became known to him—all green-flushed skin, soft furred belly, and a thick wet cock poking up between his legs.

He needed it—needed that in his mouth _right this second_ —and he was already leaning forward when Spock caught his shoulders.

“Leonard, you are still bound.”

He said it flatly. Not really a question. More of a request, really, his thumbs shifting under the rope at the back of McCoy’s neck as McCoy gazed up at him, knowing he must look adoring and not minding a bit. He met Spock’s gaze and Spock blinked, apparently in surprise, and then his grip tightened on the rope handle.

Spock tugged him forward and his cock bounced over McCoy’s cheek, leaving a wet trail that thrilled him. Spock held him still as his mouth fell open wide, wider than when the gag had been in, tongue already reaching for— _yes_!

McCoy groaned as Spock slipped into his mouth, his cock wet and long and hard, salty and sweet to the taste. The smell that hit him was deep and musky, the utter opposite of the ruined flowers now crushed between them. McCoy swallowed him down greedily, hungrily, desperate for more of Spock’s flavor.

But it was Spock who had control, and therefore it was Spock who set the pace. He held his hips still as he carefully moved McCoy’s head, bobbing it up and down, allowing his erection to slide over McCoy’s lips and deep into McCoy’s throat, where McCoy swallowed as the angular head tapped the back of his throat. He wanted more—wanted all of it—but then Spock was sliding back out to just his lips, brushing over them, painting them, and then forward again.

He groaned, body shaking with the energy of keeping himself still. He didn’t want to struggle against Spock’s ropes, but he wanted Spock so badly. How could he have known how badly he needed him? But this first taste left him breathless, moaning wantonly for more even as Spock made him go so slowly he thought he might burst.

The position had him bent over his legs—one still bound, the other free but effectively held still because that was what Spock _wanted_ from him, and how could he refuse him? Each motion made the ropes creak against his body, pulling over his skin and rubbing him, chafing at him so pleasantly that his eyes rolled back in his head. Every part of him was still stunningly alive from his orgasm, lit with a fire that poured half from within and half from the shape of Spock’s beautiful erection hard and thick in his mouth. The ropes between his legs made him clench his ass desperately, and he wanted to pull back and beg Spock just to fuck him. Just take him right here on this stupid meditation mat with the heady scent of incense clouding his senses. But with his mouth full he couldn’t ask. And this was perfect, anyway.

Next time, he thought. Next time.

Spock was drawing him in again and he closed his lips around the pulsing flesh, swallowing thickly and moaning as Spock shivered at the sensation. Any response from the Vulcan made his blood run hot, burning him. He wanted to make Spock scream. Lose control. He lived for this. For Spock heavy and good in his mouth, taking his body for his own pleasure. He never wanted to give this up.

“Leonard,” Spock cut in shakily, “I have...the ability to prevent emission. However I—I gather from your earlier request that you wish to have me emit into your mouth. Is that—?”

He didn’t even give Spock a chance to answer before he was nodding furiously, sucking at every piece of Spock’s erection he could get his mouth on. He needed that—needed Spock inside of him, taking him, marking him inside as much as he was marked outside with Spock’s thick ropes.

Spock looked down at him with a deep and utter fondness, eyes bright with amusement. “You are doing so well.”

The praise made him groan again. He curled his tongue around Spock’s tip, licking into the slit there and then letting Spock slide his mouth down. He flattened his tongue, still swallowing around the slick Spock’s body produced, desperate for it, needing it. He moaned and sucked, eager wet sounds that betrayed how hungry he was for Spock inside of him. He nearly choked himself straining forward against Spock’s hand and then he felt Spock’s breath hitching, a quiet sound that seemed thunderous.

“Leonard,” he whispered, and McCoy looked up to Spock’s normally-stoic face now twisted in lust, in a desire so acute that McCoy felt it as his own even as he swallowed around his mouthful and watched Spock’s jaw drop, eyes falling shut as he poured out into McCoy’s waiting body.

McCoy swallowed greedily, moaning as the salt hit the back of his tongue and slid thick down his throat. He loved it. Needed more of it even as Spock lifted his hips up hesitantly, thrusting shallowly into McCoy’s open mouth and milking himself.

“Yes,” Spock murmured, so low McCoy almost thought he imagined it but for the hiss of Spock’s breath. “So beautiful.”

He was shaking. Every part of him ached and he whined as Spock slowly pulled him off his cock. He yearned for it again but Spock fed him his thumb instead, brushing the slick from his lips as he did so. He suckled at it meekly, a poor substitute.

He came back to himself in pieces. The sensation of Spock wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. Spock’s hands at his ankle, untying him. Spock massaging the tension in his calf and laying him out flat on his stomach. Warm hands at his fingers unraveling him like a gift (soft lips pressed against his palms). A crushed flower placed in a pile just inside his field of vision.

He lay flat on the ground shivering as Spock released his arms. His shoulders creaked and he groaned, sighing in relief as Spock began to massage him. He could feel Spock everywhere around him, over him, atop him, his robe open and blanketing him on either side as Spock soothed his aches and pains, touched the rubbed-raw red marks from the rope. He felt lips at the back of his neck, and he sighed.

“...How bad is it?”

“There is no blood, no damage.” Spock was undoing the knot behind his neck now, moving steadily and without hurry. “I doubt you will have any mark at all tomorrow.”

McCoy hummed, surprised at how disappointed he was by that. “A shame.”

Spock let the ropes slide slick over McCoy’s back and he leaned in to kiss the back of his neck again, nipping gently with his lips. “Perhaps next time I could leave marks, if you so wish.”

He shuddered at the proclamation that Spock even _wanted_ a next time with him. He’d just had hands-down the best sex of his life but somehow that was what made it real. Spock all against his back, murmuring sweet promises in his ear. “Yeah,” he managed. “I’d like that.”

Spock moved away from him and helped him sit up, but McCoy didn’t let him take off the rest of the harness yet. He stilled Spock’s hands with his and just looked at them, turning them over so he could see the broad palms, the long narrow fingers slightly curved towards him at all times. Spock allowed him to do this for a long time before finally tugging McCoy up until he was standing.

“I have another request,” Spock said, his voice back to normal for all that McCoy was still shaking as Spock undid the ropes, letting them puddle at their feet along with the destroyed flowers.

“Yeah?”

“Stay with me tonight.”

McCoy tried to catch Spock’s eye, but he wasn’t looking at him. He seemed intent on his task, but McCoy knew better. He realized belatedly that he was free now. Could do whatever he wanted. He reached out and cupped Spock’s jaw, turning so that they were facing one another. He let his hand trail up to brush over the upturned shell of Spock’s ear, and Spock shuddered in delight.

“I warn you, I’m a cuddler.”

Spock relaxed at his words. “As I stated, I prefer to be warm. I believe that will be acceptable.”

McCoy grinned. The ropes were gone now, the incense burned out. He was naked and relaxed and Spock’s robe was still delightfully open for him to step closer to Spock’s body, wrap his arms around Spock’s waist and pull him close. They stood against one another, soft and gentle.

“Good,” McCoy murmured against Spock’s neck. He felt Spock’s hands settle on the small of his back, thumbs tracing gentle circles that made him sigh with joy. “It’s acceptable to me, too.”

Spock pulled away and interlaced their fingers—one hand warm and long, the other cool and broad. He tugged and McCoy followed easily into the next room, a little smile on his face, thinking maybe he should send Chapel a fruit basket or something. As thanks.

 


End file.
